


355

by Savageandwise



Category: Music RPF, Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (Band), Oasis (Band), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Gallaghercest | Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher Incest, M/M, halloween fic, spookiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: "There's the sound again, a long shaky note, drawn out then abruptly strangled, the sobbing little hiccups in the aftermath. The sound chills him to the bone."Is Noel going crazy or is he being haunted?
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher, Noel Gallagher/Sara MacDonald
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42





	355

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to finish this in time for Halloween but with all the crazy things going on I didn't manage to finish till now. Honestly I felt a bit haunted by this fic I couldn't really sleep all week till I finished it!
> 
> Let me know if you liked it.

There's a low keening sound coming from somewhere in the house. Noel gently nudges Sara because surely one of the kids is crying and she's better at getting them to fall back asleep. She comes back, shrugs off her dressing gown and slides back into bed. 

"All quiet on the Western Front," she whispers as she pulls up the covers. "Were you dreaming again, Noely? Or is it the tinnitus? Almost every night this week."

She reaches over and squeezes his arm. He starts to tell her that it wasn't a dream, it wasn't his ears either, but Sara's asleep already, her hand cool against his arm. And he's still wide awake, staring at the ceiling. There's the sound again, a long shaky note, drawn out, then abruptly strangled, the sobbing little hiccups in the aftermath. The sound chills him to the bone.

The sun is already up, just barely, he can see it coming in pale and dusty through a crack in the blinds. Sleep seems impossible so he gets up, makes a cup of tea and turns on the radio: "...new album _As You Were_..." As usual, there's only rubbish on the radio. He switches it off distractedly and starts working on a song he's been fiddling with. It's refusing to gel. He's sure it'll be good once he figures it out. Not one of those songs that seem to just pour out of him fully formed and flawless, but a good tune all the same. If he can find that twist, that sweet spot.

It's not going to happen this morning, he forces himself to admit. Sometimes the trick is to leave them alone for a while and then, all at once, for no particular reason, he can discern and the solution hits him square between the eyes. He's jumpy today, paranoid. His skin tight with discomfort, his scalp prickling like he can sense someone watching him. There's no one here with him. Just the framed photo of John Lennon on the wall, staring down at him from behind those iconic round frames. There's no one else in the room. 

He used to feel like this all the time, back in his coke days, like someone invisible was watching him. Like his thoughts were printed on his forehead and everyone could see them. They could see every horrible, unnatural thought clear as day. He'd hear voices, like echos, mostly shouting, some of them pleading: look at me, don't leave me, love me. Then he'd do another line to drown them out. That's not him now. Not because he couldn't still do coke if he felt like it, just because it's fucking boring. He figures he'll read his emails, take a look at those summer houses Sara wanted him to consider in the South of France. He plays through the song one last time because you never know when inspiration will strike. It's still not there.

There's a tingling in his ear as the last chords fade. Like when water gets in while washing your hair and it feels like there's an insect trapped there, making its way to your brain. He rubs at his right ear irritatedly. When he takes his finger off the tragus there's a high-pitched ringing in his head, like the screech of guitar feedback, like a child's shriek of pain or acute fear. 

No, no, no, no…

"Noel. Noel...Noely," Sara says, shaking him gently. 

Noel looks up. He's clutching his acoustic guitar like a teddy bear. In his rough grip the strings whine out their complaint. When he yawns, his ears pop.

"What's wrong?" he asks. His voice is thick with sleep.

"You tell me," she says.

He isn't sure what to say. He hasn't been sleeping well, but there's nothing actually wrong. 

The rest of the day he's slow, disconnected, distracted. His head is wrapped in cotton wool. He gets to work on his emails, goes over the cost estimates for the studio he's planning to build. He looks down at his phone. Ten messages. YouTube suggests he watch a video. He tries to click it away in annoyance but it starts up anyway. He stares at the blonde in a sequined dress, lip-synching along to the song. It's meant to be funny, he supposes, that unmistakable voice issuing from her rose-tinted lips. He shuts the app with a stab of his finger.

He's lightheaded and irritable and he realises that he clean forgot to eat lunch. He puts together a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich and eats it standing over the sink. He's just finishing the last bite when the phone rings. It's an unknown number so he ignores it. The rest of the day passes in a fog. During tea his phone goes off at least ten times, much to the amusement of Sonny and Donovan. 

"Just answer it!" Sara says, rolling her eyes. 

"It's probably just telemarketing," Noel says unconvincingly. 

"Answer it. Tell them to stop ringing," Sara says. He can tell she has her own idea about who it might be and it isn't telemarketing.

Noel wakes up shivering hours later with a pulsing in his ear. Sara is sound asleep beside him. There's that whimper again, that whine. And then a stuttering, like a line of swallowed sobs. A struck note strangled by a hand over the strings. He doesn't bother waking Sara tonight. He slides out of bed himself and checks on the boys. They're both fast asleep. Sonny has kicked off the blanket and Noel takes a moment to pick it up off the floor and tuck it around the boy. In the next room over, Donovan is lying with his arms and legs stretched out like a starfish, the blanket twisted around his middle. Noel's stomach flips unpleasantly. Sometimes he's struck by how small his boys are, how breakable. He remembers all the ways you can break a child and thanks his lucky stars it's different for his kids. Sometimes he thinks Donovan looks a bit like Liam. That's nonsense, of course. They both look quite a bit like Sara's side of the family. Occasionally though, he'll get this stubborn look on his face; the set of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. He'll open his mouth to speak and look exactly like Liam. 

He leaves the door open a crack, just the way Donovan likes it, and heads back to bed. He's half convinced himself it was just his imagination when he sees his phone light up again from the bedside table. _Unknown Number_. He picks it up, pads out into the hall.

"Hello," he says in a low voice. 

At first all he hears is the crackle of the phone connection and then a muffled cry. Noel feels a chill grip his heart. And he's not sure how he could have ever thought it sounded like Donovan or Sonny. It sounds like Liam. Liam at five or six, stifling his sobs behind his hands.

"Liam?" he whispers.

No answer. 

"Who is this?"

No answer. Just a shuddery whimper.

"Liam, please," Noel says a little louder. 

Then the call cuts out and all he can hear is his own breathing. His stomach is heaving, it feels like a scream is working its way up out of his throat, pulling at his vocal chords. He heads straight to the living room to the mirrored cabinet where they store their booze and grabs a bottle of vodka. He pours two fingers of it into a glass and gulps it all down. It burns in his throat. He pours himself another and then another. Soon his head feels lighter, his hands have stopped shaking and he feels like a fucking idiot.

Of course it wasn't Liam. Liam doesn't even have this number. Unless he does, unless someone gave it to him. It wasn't, though. There's no way he could produce that sound today. That high-pitched childish cry that made Noel's blood run cold. Liam at five, screaming into his hands, choking back sobs.

Noel tries to picture Liam's face at five, that big dumb smile, the button nose, wide blue eyes. He didn't cry much when he was physically hurt. Sometimes Noel would reach over, pinch the buttery soft flesh on the inside of his arm, just above his armpit and Liam would sit there stonily silent, plotting his revenge. Other times he'd weep stormily, causing Mam to scold him. "You're older, Noel. You should know better." He knew how to play the room even then, Liam did.

Noel can count the times he's seen Liam really cry on the fingers of one hand. When Noel came back from his hiatus in San Francisco after that horrible Whiskey gig, when Patsy left him, the first time he heard "Don't Go Away". Did Liam cry in Paris when they ended the band for good? Noel can't remember. What he does remember is sitting in the car for ages, trying to decide if he should stay or go. He remembers crying so hard his eyes were swollen shut the next morning. He remembers lying to Sara about it. She told him it was going to be fine from now on. Better than fine. It was going to be perfect. He doesn't think Liam cried. He got drunk and then he started Beady Eye. 

Noel has another shot of vodka, he's almost drunk now. His ears have stopped ringing. It's easier to think about Liam when he's drunk. To think about how the curve of his bottom lip trembles slightly when he's angry or sad. Those huge blue eyes, full of undisguised hurt. Don't leave me, look at me, love me. The way he smelled of sunshine and mischief as a child and cigarettes and mischief as an adult. How he'd seek out Noel's face in a crowd, the way you might finger an old scar; out of habit and because the shape of it feels good beneath your fingers.

Liam rarely asks for help outright. It's a matter of pride. Even as a kid he'd fall and scramble up on his own. Blood could be flowing into his eyes from a scalp wound and he'd insist it didn't hurt. He didn't need to ask. Noel still felt it in his gut when Liam was in pain. And he feels it now like a phantom limb. A tightness in his chest, like a pinprick hole in the fabric of the world, sucking out all the air. He wants to reach over to the other bed in the room they shared as children, squeeze Liam's outstretched hand. Feel the tips of his fingers, one by one. They never needed words. That's all they needed. Now all they have are words. 

The thing is...the thing is...he can't just ask Liam if he's alright. He can't just ring him or text him. He can't open that can of worms again. Anyway, why wouldn't Liam be alright? Hasn't he just released a new solo album? An album full of songs reaching out to Noel. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if Liam has his minions write a million songs slagging him off. Team NG is fine. Team NG is perfect. If only he could get some sleep.

Noel jolts awake to the feeling of a cold nose against his temple. Boots the cat is Iicking his hair. He must have knocked over the bottle and spilled what was left of the vodka on the kitchen counter. He's been sleeping in a puddle of it. 

"Piss off. Fucking cat," he says affectionately, reaching over to stroke the creature. 

He is just righting the discarded vodka bottle when he thinks he spies a small pale figure at the doorway. 

"Sonny?"

The hair at the back of Noel's neck stands up. All at once the room is freezing, and then Boots is in his lap, spitting and hissing, fur bristling.

He digs his claws into Noel's thighs and Noel stands up abruptly, wincing and cursing in pain. The cat lands on the floor, growling deep and low, ears flat against his head, belly close to the ground, eyes fixed on the doorway. There's no one there.

Noel looks down at Boots, but he's gone. There's a musky scent in the air, that scared cat stink. There's a spot of blood on the leg of his cotton pyjama bottoms.

"Fuck."

In the bathroom he rifles through the medicine cabinet until he finds the antiseptic spray. He pulls down his pyjama bottoms and examines the claw marks on his thighs. It doesn't look as bad as it feels. He sprays some disinfectant onto his legs. He's leaning on the edge of the bathtub when he notices a small wet footprint on the slate grey tiled floor. Strange, it looks new. Maybe it had been Sonny, up out of bed. He'd had a brief phase of sleepwalking a couple of years ago. He and Sara had found it hilarious. He'd grown out of it quick enough before it got dangerous. So quickly in fact, Sara had wondered if he'd just pretended to be asleep for a laugh. There are three more footprints on the hardwood floor, another on the carpet. He would have to be soaking wet to produce these prints. He supposes the kid might have pissed himself but that doesn't seem likely. It's been years since he did that.

Liam used to sleepwalk when he was a kid. His relationship with sleep had always been an odd one. He walked clean out the door once past Mam and Da. Da boxed Noel's ears for not noticing him slip away. He'd been fast asleep.

"You're lying," Liam said when Noel explained what happened.

His little feet had been caked with mud, though. He'd walked through Da's vegetable patch, crushing those fragile new carrot greens.

He crouches down, dips one finger in one of the small foot-shaped puddles cautiously. He sniffs his finger. It doesn't smell like anything. It's not pee. He walks with his eyes trained on the floor, follows the path of footprints. They lead to the room where he keeps his guitars. And that's where they stop, right in front of the door. The room is dead silent. His guitars rest on their racks, gleaming in the moonlight coming in from the window. Noel runs his fingers over the glossy wood, counting them. The Epiphone Les Paul in cherry sunburst, the Union Jack, the Rickenbackers, the Fender Telecaster Johnny Depp gave him, the 1960s Gibson ES-355s in cherry and vintage red. There's a gap in the Gibsons. He looks around the room. The boys know better than to touch his gear. It's there in the corner, leaned against an amp already plugged in, waiting for him to play it. Vintage red shining like spilled blood.

Noel runs his fingertips along the strings. The kids know better than to touch his stuff. And Sara never would. Never. He picks up the guitar gingerly and just holds it, feeling its potential. It's not just any guitar, not just any Gibson ES-355. It's the guitar Liam smashed in Paris the night they ended things. He had it repaired despite Sara's prediction it would be worth so much more broken. He only decided to have it repaired last month. It lay broken in a case for nearly a decade. They only just finished it last week. It took longer than he thought it would, but it was worth it. There's a part of him that just needs to look ahead, just needs everything to look whole and unblemished. He just needs to sweep the past under the bed. So he had the guitar repaired and now it's good as new. 

"It's a lie," Liam would have said. "What's the point, right? What's the point if you ain't gonna be straight with yourself? You can hide the cracks, but they're still there and that."

Noel turns the sound down low, plugs his headphones into the amp and plays a bit of that tune he heard on YouTube. How did it go again? _You've never been alone before...And the wolf is at the door…_ Clever. Too clever. The way only a team of songwriters can craft it.

Noel doesn't have a team. He only has himself. He plays his own tune, the one he can't quite get to work. He imagines Liam singing it. Imagines the way he stands with his legs apart, slightly stooped forward. He'd sing it deliberately, enunciating each word, stretching out the vowels to the breaking point. He'd turn it into something else entirely. Inspired by that thought, Noel plays a little solo, a wailing bit that brings a lump to his throat. This is what he was waiting for.

He wakes up late the next morning, his head throbbing. At breakfast, Sara hands him a cup of tea, tight-lipped and silent. The boys are talking about some movie they want to watch. Their chatter makes him want to stick his head in the oven.

"Has someone been in my guitars and that? Last night after bed?" Noel asks sharply, interrupting them.

Both boys shrug and shake their heads. Neither of them has ever shown much interest in his music. 

"Someone touched one. Must have done. Just left it against the amp still plugged in," Noel insists. He looks up at Sara expectantly.

"No one touched your guitars," Sara says a trifle shortly. "Someone did polish off the better part of a bottle of vodka last night and left a mess on the kitchen counter. Maybe someone broke in! Or we have a ghost."

Sonny snickers at that. Noel glares at him. Right at that moment Noel's phone starts buzzing. _Unknown Number._ After, when the kids are at school, Sara sits him down for a talk. 

"Something is wrong. Don't shake your head. You're barely sleeping. You're not eating properly. The vodka last night. The thing with the guitar. Is it...what's wrong?"

Noel looks down at her hand on his. "Nothing's wrong."

She doesn't look convinced. "Is this about Liam?" 

Noel just stares. "What?"

It feels strange to hear his brother's name out loud at home. They try not to talk about him too much in front of the kids. As far as Sara is concerned, Liam is the devil. Invoking his name brings about bad luck and destruction.

She folds her arms over her chest. "His new album is out."

"It's shite," Noel says. 

"Did you listen to it?"

"Just the one about me."

"He's so desperate it's disgusting," Sara remarks. "They're all about you."

Noel raises an eyebrow. "You heard it, then."

Sara shrugs. "Some of it. Look...has he been calling?" she asks. "We agreed…"

Noel gives her a level look. "I don't know if it's him. I wouldn't keep it from you if it was, you know. I want him out of our lives, too."

He sounds so convincing she backs off at once. She puts her hands to either side of his face and kisses him on the lips.

"Pull yourself together, baby," she says firmly.

He goes for a run to try to do just that. In the cold light of day everything seems clearer. He'll go to the doctor, have his ears checked again. It's just the lack of sleep. It's just that song he couldn't get to work. He has it now, though, and everything is fine now. He's just keeping a regular pace, concentrating on breathing in and out. His heartbeat is a steady bassline, all that matters is the next stretch and the next. There's something wonderfully mind-numbing about exercise. Sometimes when he's running like this, inspiration will strike and he'll push himself all the way home, the song ringing out in his head. 

Today he's dragging. He's bone-weary and struggling. The sound of children shrieking and laughing catches his attention. It's coming from a nearby playground. Nothing out of the ordinary, just everyday noise. Just children running and playing. He stops at the wire fence a moment, grips it with both hands, does a series of stretches. Someone is crying. He scans the playground to find the source of that low wail, that stuttering shuddering sob. All quiet on the Western Front. Not even one child sniffling. There's a sharp pain in his right hand. He looks down at the metal links and realises there's a break in the wire. He didn't even feel it until this moment. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. The blood is vintage red seeping through the fine, layered tissue paper. 

Out of the corner of his eye Noel spies a dark figure. Probably a fan wanting a selfie. He's not in the mood for that and, clutching the tissue tight in his hand, heads back home, running in a clipped pace. His hand throbs dully. He can't recall when he had his last tetanus shot. Sara would probably know. Behind him he can hear the sound of footsteps, the huff of jagged breath. Noel keeps running, picking up speed. He turns his head discreetly at the next light. The man is wearing a dark blue parka and black shorts and a black bucket hat. Noel's heart skips a beat. He tries to run steadily, not bolt like a crazy man. He's not being followed, not being followed by a man dressed like Liam. It's just in his head.

He used to be followed all the time in the nineties. People would run after him, people would follow his car, begging for an autograph. Half the time they mistook him for Liam, stupid fuckers. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fumbles for it automatically. _Unknown Number._ Noel turns around to see if Dark Blue Parka is on the phone, but he's gone. He sighs in relief, slows down a little. His heart is still hammering in his chest. When he turns the corner he's almost feeling like himself again. He's almost home, then he can put the finishing touches on that song. His phone is buzzing again, but he ignores it, stops at the last light, hanging his head till he catches his breath. Suddenly, something dark comes up from behind, swallowing the light. Noel sucks in his breath, panicked, turns to face Dark Blue Parka, the name lodged in his throat like a bullet.

 _Liam_.

"Can I get a selfie?" Dark Blue Parka asks. He's all wrong. Too heavy, too pale and too Southern. It's not Liam.

Noel is too stunned to say no. He lets the man put his arm around his shoulders and take a photo of them together. "Brilliant! Cheers, mate!"

Noel grunts and nods distractedly. Sara's right, he needs to pull himself together. At home he heads straight to the room where he keeps his guitars. The repaired 355 isn't on the rack where he returned it last night. It's leaning against the amp again, vintage lacquer gleaming red. Someone moved it again. It feels heavy in his arms, the weight is reassuring, like holding a sleeping child or a loaded gun. He plugs it in and plays the opening notes, lets them hang in the air the way a rich perfume would. The song has shifted subtly, the way his music used to during the Oasis days when Liam infused everything with that unmistakable quality that was his alone. Liam isn't here, but it's still happening. That magic. That horrible wonderful perversion of his material. That secret spice. He opens his mouth and words come out. His brain isn't even coming up with them anymore. They tumble out of him, finished, like God or whoever put them there. Liam put them there. That's the truth.

He's pleading in song, his vocal raw, almost crazed. He doesn't even know what he's singing about. He shuts his eyes because it's all too much. There is something bubbling out of him. Something buried in his soul the way you'd hide a treasure—no, a corpse—under the floorboards. He can almost taste the memory driving this. Smell it. The detergent from the worn sheets, the damp scent of Manchester in the autumn, the stink of urine. That small soft hand shaking him awake.

"Noely."

Blue eyes luminous in the dark. 

"Noely," he said, shaking him more insistently. "Wet me bed again."

"Just change your kit and sleep on the floor, like."

"No. I want to sleep in your bed with you."

"Don't be an idiot. Wash up and sleep with Paul."

He started moving before Noel could stop him, tore open the door screaming for Mam at the top of his lungs.

Now the drums. The deep warning throb of the bass. Noel imagines that bit, plays on like he's a sprinter straining on towards the finish line.

Mam didn't come that night. Da strode in, took one look at Liam and shook his head, crossed the room to Noel's bed. He was drunk, no mistaking that. Red-faced, bleary-eyed and sloppy. He bent over, the shadow from his stocky frame covering Noel in darkness, black on black.

"Fuck's sake. The sheer uselessness of you!" he shouted and pulled Noel up and out of bed by his left arm, twisting it viciously. "Help him clean up, strip that fucking bed!" 

Noel tried to get away, but Da was too strong. He pulled one way, Da another until something inside crunched. Noel's face crumpled in pain, a scream frozen in his throat. The back of Da's hand clipped him smartly on the mouth, his heavy ring cutting into his upper lip. He tasted metal and salt.

"Not a sound out of you!" Da said, low and menacing. "Not a peep!"

And then he was gone. Noel just stood there trembling, swallowing down that futile rage and hurt, helpless tears streaming down his cheeks. Liam's face was dead white in the darkness, like a single lick of candlelight. Noel turned his head awkwardly, there was something very wrong with his shoulder. 

"I can't move me arm," he managed at last. The words came out garbled.

"There's blood," Liam said in a small voice. 

Noel wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his pyjamas using his good arm. His left arm hurt too much to move. When he stretched down the collar of his T-shirt he could see the bone jutted out unnaturally. 

"Get Mam," Noel said. 

Liam just stared.

"Get her now," Noel said quietly, his voice trembling.

There must have been something terrifying in the tone of his voice because Liam started to cry. Really cry. He lifted his hands to cover his face, sobbed into his hands.

"Liam," Noel said urgently.

Liam bolted from the room, his wails echoing down the hall as he ran to fetch Mam as fast as his little legs could carry him.

That's what was stuck in Noel's head when Mam took him to the doctor, when the doctor popped the shoulder back in. Liam's stricken look. Those genuine tears, his mouth open wide with terror. That horrible whine of real fear.

The doctor gave him a sling and a couple of painkillers. No sports. No fighting with his brothers or anything that could cause it to happen again. Noel just looked at him sullenly. Like he'd done it to himself. Like he was being careless and it happened. He swallowed the pills with a glass of water and Mam took him home. Liam was asleep in his bed when they got back, his little face streaked with tears. Someone—Paul presumably—had gotten him to wash up and change his pyjamas. Mam shifted his small body towards the wall. Liam's mattress was bare and wet. They'd have to share tonight. 

Close to morning, he felt Liam's face warm against his cheek. His hand soft on his hair, petting it awkwardly. Maybe he dreamed that part. He didn't dream the feeling that choked him with its intensity. That fierce love. That is what he's singing about now. Love that hurts more than a split lip, more than a dislocated shoulder. That pain he's carried all these years. 

The gash on Noel's hand is open and weeping. He sets down the guitar and makes a fist. He should have cleaned it up right away. He's been injured often enough to know better. He puts the 355 back on the rack and heads to the bathroom to take care of his hand. Only when he catches sight of himself in the mirror does he realise he's still wearing his running gear. He showers quickly and then splashes some disinfectant on his hand, slaps on a band-aid. Sara is on the couch in the living room, listening to something on her phone. He can hear the tinny sound of Liam's voice. She looks up when he passes, closes the file she was listening to and gives him a scrutinising look.

"What's that you were singing? It sounded intense," she asks.

Noel bristles at her words in spite of himself. "Just summat I'm working on. Listen, someone's been at my guitars again." 

"No one touched your guitars," Sara insists.

"No. I think you'll find someone has touched my guitars. One of the kids. One guitar in particular. The one...the one that was wrecked in Paris."

"Paris?" Sara asks, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Yeah. Paris," Noel says, raising his voice. "The one...the one he...the one our kid wrecked in Paris."

"The one Liam smashed," Sara spits the name out like it hurts her to say it. "The one you got back from the shop last week."

Noel rolls his eyes at her. "This isn't about him."

"Isn't it? Why did you have that thing fixed? Because you were done with him? It's not Liam who keeps calling you? I'm not telling you not to talk to him. I'm asking you to be honest."

Noel looks straight at her, holding her gaze. She doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about.

She sets down her phone and walks towards him, eyes narrow. "Have you been crying?" 

He snorts with awkward laughter. "Have I what?"

"Your eyes are red."

"No, I haven't been crying, Sara."

There's an ache in his chest like something is broken inside him, something essential. If she touches him now he will cry. 

"Noel…"

He can't do this now. He can't do this ever. In his pocket his phone buzzes over and over. He pulls it out angrily.

"I can't do this anymore. Stop calling!"

"Noely," a small voice says. "I want to sleep with you in your bed."

Noel throws the phone against the wall as hard as he can, then falls to his knees to scoop it up. The display is smashed to bits, but he can still see the words _Unknown Number_ through the shattered glass. Sara's mouth is agape in shock.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she shouts, lunging to grab the phone from him. 

Noel holds it to his ear. There's that crying again, that whine of terror. A sharp exhale and then a sob that shocks Noel to the core. Sara is still reaching for the phone and he shoves her away, disconnects the call. 

"You're fucking barking!" she says.

She pushes him back, her cheeks flushed with anger. He stretches out a hand to pacify her, but she's already heading out the door.

"Fuck off. Just piss off, will you?" Sara mutters.

She doesn't even turn around. Noel slides down to the floor, runs a finger over the smashed display. He shuts his eyes and shivers. His hand is throbbing again. He can't think. He just hears that moan, soft, insidious in his ear. Noel buries his head in his hands and stays like that for a long while. 

"Dad?" 

The sun has set already. A long dark shadow falls over him. He looks up to see Sonny standing in the doorway pointing down at him. 

"There's blood." 

Noel looks down at his hand. The band-aid is soaked through. Noel closes his fist and opens his arms to the boy. Sonny walks straight in, buries his face in Noel's hair.

"We're going to Grandma and Grandpa. Can't you come with us?"

Sara and Donovan are standing at the door. Donovan is staring at the floor and Sara is staring at Noel. He raises his eyebrows at her and she shakes her head imperceptibly. 

"No, darling," Noel whispers. "See you soon. Be good for Mum."

Then they're gone, but he's not alone. There's someone else in the house with him. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, a twisting of his gut. He can smell it. There's a scent in the air he hasn't smelled in decades: wood and musk, something fresh and spicy and vital like a hundred drunken nights at the Hacienda. He can almost taste it. Like when you spray yourself with perfume and open your mouth before the cloud of scent has settled. Noel goes to the bathroom, spits into the sink to rid his mouth of the cloying, bittersweet taste. Then he wraps a new bandage around his hand. 

All at once he realises what that smell is. It's the scent he used in his early twenties, the one Louise gave it to him for his birthday when they first met. He used it for a while until Liam stole it. Borrowed it. Liam used to "borrow" things all the time. Jumpers, jackets. Not shoes, though. His feet were too big. Noel looks up into the mirror, catches sight of that angular, lean face; that wide cheeky grin.

"What's yours is mine, innit? What's mine is yours."

Except Liam never had owt. 

Noel looks away hurriedly and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. He goes straight back to the living room, retrieves a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. There's no way in hell he's doing this sober. A good fourth into the bottle and he's feeling good. He can't feel his hand anymore anyway. His head is light. He calls Sara to see if they've arrived at her parents house yet. She sounds tired and sad.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just left like that. But you're not yourself. You're…" she lets the words trail off awkwardly. 

"You just grab the kids...we could have talked about it, Sara…"

"I tried to talk to you. More than once. But when you put up your walls, Noel...are you drinking?"

"What of it?"

"What of it? Can you hear yourself? You're not well. You need to get help. You're paranoid. You don't sleep. You're not eating. Is it drugs? You're not twenty anymore. You're not on fucking tour with your fucking psychotic brother."

"You don't know…" Noel begins. "You don't...don't...don't fucking know…"

"What don't I know? What's there to know? You don't tell me anything! You won't talk about him! You barely say his name!"

"Because you fucking despise him!" Noel shouts. "You fucking...fucking...despise the man!"

"Yes, I do! Yes, I fucking do. I hate him. I hate who you become when you're with him. I hate that he has this power over you! But this isn't my doing, Noel. He's on Twitter every day calling me a witch, saying I won't let you see him. That's all you. This was all you. You want to see him? See him! Tell him you're the one who cut him out of your life. Cause it wasn't fucking me!" She's crying now, really crying, sobbing into the phone.

"Sara…" he says gently. "Sara…I can't...I can't..." 

"Get your shit together, Noel. Don't call me until you do."

"Let me speak to the boys at least! Just to say good night! Let me say good night to them!" 

She disconnects without another word.

"Cunt!" he shouts at the phone.

He remembers the last time he argued with Sara like this, some fifteen years prior. It had been about Liam that time, too. He'd been dreading the tour for months and the closer it got the worse he got. Drinking, pills, dark moods. Sara blamed Liam, as usual. Said it was no wonder he was dreading the tour if he knew he'd have to spend every waking moment watching over his moron of a brother. He told her to shut her fucking flap. Then his passport disappeared and Sara swore she had nothing to do with it. He recalls stumbling into Liam's house drunk and crazed and falling down at his feet. 

"Done a real number on you, ain't she? Your missus." 

Then Liam's hand on the back of his neck, solid and reassuring. 

Noel shivers. It's very cold in the house, he can see his breath fog when he exhales. He puts on a jumper and then he gets back to work on the bottle of whiskey. He switches on the telly, watches a bit of Liverpool thrashing Newcastle. He turns the sound up loud to drown out thoughts in his head. So loud all he can hear is the crowd screaming and the commentary and after all...you're my wonderwall…

The world is upside down. Noel puts his hands flat down on the sofa, concentrates on his breathing. The screaming from the crowd is crying. The crying is moaning. He can feel a hand on the back of his neck and one on his chest, fingers splayed in the hair there. In his ear that sharp intake of breath and then that soft moan. The skin all over his body prickles with discomfort. He's going to be sick. There's that sob again, the shuddering like muffled guitar strings. Only it's not a sob. Someone's struggling to catch their breath. Two someones, their ragged breath in sync. And then a long moan. Oh, God. Noel's stomach flips. It's not a man moaning. It's a guitar. A guitar wailing out a melody full of longing. And above it, reed-thin, his new song. Faster in places, slower in others, the chorus drawn out, then a strangled moan cut short. Drums. Then a guitar solo. The bassline, dark and heavy with an undercurrent of danger. Then the words start up again. Liam. Liam is singing his new song.

Noel scrambles to his feet, sprints to the guitar room. He swings his hand at the light switch, flicks it on. There, propped against the amp, is the 355. There it is. Taunting him. Moaning out its perverse song. Something clicks in his head like a light switch and he's rushing at the instrument. He grips the neck hard. The strings cry out in protest. 

"Fucking exploded in me hand...like...like...fucking magic," Liam said. Barely sixteen years old and too drunk to stand.

Noel was back from touring with Inspiral Carpets, glad to be home again. Two hot meals, water pressure worth a damn. His own bed in his own room even if he did have to share with Liam. He stretched out his hand.

"Let me see it. You fucking cry baby," Noel said.

There was a long crooked gash on Liam's palm. 

"Your pint exploded?" Noel asked in disbelief. 

"That's what I said," Liam slurred. "I barely squeezed it."

"And then you kept right on drinking? Even though you were bleeding left, right and centre?"

"Poured some vodka on it, didn't I?"

Noel rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom to fetch bandages and hydrogen peroxide. 

"Don't fucking fall asleep, right? Don't fucking bleed on my bed."

Liam laughed gently. "Yes, sir!" He did a little salute.

Noel held tight to Liam's hand, poured the hydrogen peroxide on and watched it fizz. Liam whined and moaned in pain, his right hand tightened around Noel's knee. 

"Hold still. Dumb cunt. What would you have done if I'd been out? Woken Mam?"

Liam shrugged. "Knew you'd be in." He looked up into his eyes with that look Noel couldn't stand. That stark admiration, like a fucking dog. That blind love. 

Noel wrapped the hand with a bit of gauze and then gave it a gentle squeeze. 

"All done." 

Liam looked strange then. His face dead serious, petal-perfect, his lips parted. 

"Noely," he said softly. "I want to sleep with you in your bed."

Noel rolled his eyes, let go of Liam's hand.

"I barely fit on me own as it is."

Liam shrugged, put his hand on Noel's neck, the other on his chest. Then he tipped onto Noel's mattress, dragging him down with him.

"Drunk bastard," Noel said. 

Liam's hands were in his hair. "It hurts," he said in a small voice like he was still that little boy clinging to Noel when he was scared or injured. That kid who petted his hair after his shoulder was dislocated.

He pushed Liam in against the wall so his arse wasn't hanging off the side of the bed and Liam's breath huffed out in a jagged stutter.

"Do you want a paracetamol? Does it hurt that much? Maybe you should go to casualty."

Liam shook his head, slid his legs between Noel's abruptly. Liam's hand on his neck, so gentle it made no sense until he looked into his brother's face and knew.

Noel can't breath. He can't understand why it took him so long to realise what was happening. So long it's embarrassing. Looking back now it's obvious. He's gripping the guitar so tightly his injured hand is a ball of pain. He lets the guitar slide from his grasp and it falls to the floor with a deafening crack.

"Enough!" 

He slumps to the floor, pushes the instrument away with both feet. The memories rush at his brain, crowding everything else out. All he can see is Liam. All he can feel is Liam, his scent strong in his nostrils.

There's no way to justify it, no explanation that makes it okay. He knew and he let it happen. Liam's lips warm on his own. Those little gasps of pleasure. Maybe he thought that's where it would end. Just that. Liam's mouth on his, his hand on his neck and on his chest. His long legs threaded between his own. That wasn't too far, was it? Not crossing a line. Liam arched his back and opened his mouth, his tongue sliding between Noel's lips.

Liam was a man who acted on impulse. Even as a child he'd say what came into his head. He'd go with his gut feeling. This felt different. This felt off, uncharacteristic. The way he kept watching Noel's eyes, every movement, every touch, every sound. This was premeditated. And fuck if it wasn't the greatest high Noel had ever felt, to be wanted like that.

So how could he have stopped it? A stronger man would have given in. He kissed Liam back, pulled him hard into his arms. Liam was quivering, murmuring nonsense, his long, slim body curved against Noel's. He shut his eyes, lashes trembling. His mouth was so soft. So sweet. 

Liam's taste on his tongue. Noel pulls his knees up to his chin, rocks himself back and forth, his hands clamped to either side of his head. He wishes he could cut these memories out. Amputate them. He can hear Liam's voice soft in his ear.

"I knew it, you know. Knew you wanted me."

Noel lets out a cry of despair, grabs the 355 and stands. He swings it up over his head like an axe, brings it down against the wall with a flash of red. The guitar groans as the wood splinters and the strings moan. The neck is snapped, it hangs askew, pathetic and broken. A sob catches in Noel's chest.

And all at once he did want him. Maybe he always had. He wanted Liam's hands all over him. He wanted to put his mouth on Liam's skin, inhale that musky scent of hormones and beer and cigarettes. He pulled up Liam's T-shirt, slid his hands against his smooth skin, felt his heart beat staccato. Liam lapped at Noel's tongue hungrily, wriggled against him impatiently. Then he took his hand and pressed it hard against his groin.

"Fucking hell," Noel gasped. "Fuck."

He drops the mangled instrument, his lungs labouring. He hears a terror-filled scream and realises it's coming from his own mouth. He could have said no then. He could have said no, but instead he ran his hand over Liam's erection and shivered.

"The state of you," Noel had whispered.

The look on Liam's face had been so wrong. So tender. Openly pleading. He'd never seen Liam look like that, never. And never would again until some years later when he asked him to join Oasis. Here was the tipping point. There was no coming back from this. This was the moment that would haunt him for the rest of his days. 

Though battered and in pieces the 355 is still singing, still wailing with desire. And Noel, gasping, kicks at its slim red body savagely. 

"Please."

Liam's dick was hard beneath his hand. His voice was soft in Noel's ear. Noel moved like possessed, worked open the top button on Liam's jeans and slid down the zipper, his hands shaking so hard it was almost impossible to do what Liam wanted. He slid down Liam's jeans and boxers, gripped his stiff cock. When Liam cried out, delirious with desire, Noel covered his mouth, stifled his moans with his palm. His body prickled all over with fear. Mam might hear them, Paul might hear them. He gripped Liam's face harder, fingers cutting into his smooth cheeks. 

"Shut up, you fucking idiot," Noel hissed. 

Liam complied at once, almost sobered. He came fast and hard, swallowing down cries of pleasure, his whole body shaking. After, he lay in Noel's arms, soft and silent. His eyes were glazed over with contentment, his breath shallow in Noel's ear.

Noel claws at the strings, nickel on steel, cuts his fingers to ribbons. His throat is raw from screaming. Beneath the crunch of wood and steel he can still hear Liam's sighs and his own laboured breath.

He couldn't understand what he was feeling. Not just physically, but emotionally. He couldn't understand the urgency that seemed to sweep over him like the tide rushing the shore. He wanted to possess Liam entirely. Wanted to fill him up. Mark every part of him. He wanted to ruin him. Not only did he want it, he deserved it. Liam was his, flesh and bone. Noel turned abruptly, pressed himself against Liam's slender body.

"Yeah?" Liam breathed.

Noel nodded and Liam curled his fingers tentatively at the front of Noel's pyjama bottoms, tracing the stark shape of his erection. He laughed with breathless joy, pulled down the waistband of Noel's pyjamas.

"With your mouth."

Noel watched as Liam hesitated a moment. He looked up at Noel, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Then he slid down and put his lips to the head of Noel's dick. He opened his mouth wide and sheathed him cleanly. Noel didn't hold back. He tilted his hips greedily, angling hard into Liam's mouth. Liam gagged once, but clung on defiantly, sucked him so earnestly it brought tears to Noel's eyes. He didn't take long, he exploded in Liam's mouth just like magic.

Noel is panicked now, raving. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

The 355 doesn't. 

So he scoops up the remains of the guitar and carries it to the garden.There's some lighter fluid for the barbecue in the shed. He douses the instrument like he's fucking Hendrix at Monterey Pop and sets it ablaze. The flames rise higher and higher. Red sparks dance like fireflies in the night sky. Far in the distance he thinks he can hear the sirens. It doesn't matter. It was well worth it. He's exorcised now. He's free.

He sits down in the grass and waits for them to arrest or rescue him. The red-orange tongues lick at everything, starving and relentless, feasting on grass and trees and stone and wood and steel until the whole world is blotted out by fire and ash.

"...ask me if I love you still..."

Noel blinks awake on the sofa. His back is killing him. On the telly that blonde bird in the silver dress is writhing around singing in his brother's voice. He raises his hands to his face to rub at his eyes. Not a blister, not a burn. Not a mark on his hands, not a scratch. He can't understand. He reaches for the remote and switches the telly off. Then he runs to the window, the sun is just barely coming up. There's his garden, pruned and perfect as it ever was. He rushes upstairs, peeks into Sonny's room, then Donovan's. They are both safe in bed, sleeping soundly. He opens the door to the master bedroom as quietly as he can. Sara is lying on her back wearing her eye mask like she's Holly Golightly. She looks peaceful, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's asleep. He shuts the door quietly. Everything looks completely normal, there's no sign his family ever left for Scotland. Was none of it real?

He starts to run and before he realises where he's going he finds himself standing at the door to the guitar room. The 1960 Gibson ES-355 is propped against the amp. Not a scratch on it, not a dent. Its body, red as new blood, glows decadently. Look at me, it sighs when he touches its strings, don't leave me. Love me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to Twinka for the wonderful editing and pushing me to improve! 
> 
> And to whereitwillgo cause you love music porn.


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